


The Meaning of Teamwork

by xax



Category: Final Fantasy 9
Genre: Fisting, Furry, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:46:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xax/pseuds/xax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ipsen's Castle, Zidane shows Amarant just what 'teamwork' means. Apparently, it means sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meaning of Teamwork

As Zidane clattered down the crumbling steps he almost tripped over Amarant, who was sprawled out unmoving at the bottom.

He had a jagged rip in one of his pant legs and there was a pooling puddle of blood spilt out from it along grooves in the crumbling tile floor. Most immediately explicatory was the axe-blade lodged in the wall behind him, hung like a pendulum from the ceiling.

Zidane could picture very clearly the chain of events that lead to this. Amarant always had to be such a cocksure jackass, and as usual it had bitten him right on the ass. Again. Still, he struggled to not think uncharitable thoughts.

Zidane crouched beside Amarant and shook his shoulder. At the touch, he swung out wildly towards him, and only his nimble thief reflexes (and the habit of leaning forward while rocking back on his heels) saved him from a fairly savage punch to the face. So, Amarant was definitely still conscious and belligerent.

Amarant raised his head, although it took him a half-second to locate and identity Zidane. "Zidane?" he said, disbelievingly, "Why did you come back?"

"Amarant? What happened to you?" Zidane said, as if the glaring physical evidence around didn't make the question superfluous. But it was important to keep him talking, and anyway he might have a better idea of what had happened, or— Amarant spoke, cutting off his train of thought.

"Answer my question," Amarant said, his mouth puckering like he'd eaten something sour. "I told you we might be enemies next time we met... Or did you come back to mock me?" Of _course_ he couldn't have, say, given useful information that made it easier for Zidane to help him out.

Zidane rolled his eyes. "The guys outside told me that you hadn't come out yet. That's why I came here looking for you." Because despite it all, Amarant was nice to have around, in an angry dirty tiger kind of way. It was too bad he apparently liked being infuriating. At least he was easy on the eyes.

Amarant shook his head, his heavy dreads wagging back and forth. "We don't have anything to do with each other anymore... You don't have anything to gain from this."

Zidane let out an exasperated breath, which Amarant thankfully didn't pick up on. "Come on. We've helped each other many times since we joined forces. You're a part of the team." Zidane put his hands on his hips. "That's all that matters. I can't just walk away, it goes against my nature."

"And that's what being part of the team means...?" Amarant said, equal parts confused and sarcastic. Zidane manfully resisted hitting him in the face and settled for tugging at his shoulder, trying to pull him upright.

"Isn't it?" Zidane stood up when Amarant refused to budge and tapped his foot against the stone tiles. "You need help right now. Hey, I'll give you a piggy-back ride or—" Zidane was cut off by a rough laugh from Amarant. After a half-second, Zidane scratched the back of his head and continued, like the idea had just occurred to him, "Yeah, that probably wouldn't work. Look, just lean on me, okay?"

Zidane grabbed at Amarant's arm again and tried (rather ineffectively) to pull him to his feet. Amarant rolled his eyes, but placed an arm over his shoulder and levered himself into a standing position, almost bowling him over in the process. His body settled against his side, heavy and warm. This close, he could _smell_ Amarant— sweaty and pretty rank, but with an undertone of something that sent a buzz through his body. Amarant was favoring his good leg pretty heavily, but he was still able to move his injured one— that was good, at least.

Together, they stumbled through Ipsen's Castle. Amarant was obviously trying to avoid actually putting any weight on Zidane, but as they staggered up the steps he faltered and almost collapsed against him anyway. He dragged his injured leg behind, biting back little hisses of pain each time it caught on the edge of the steps.

He listed so heavily against Zidane that he was almost bowled over again and he struggled to keep upright for a few seconds, until Amarant got his footing back a little. Amarant was head-and-shoulders-and-chest taller than him and who knew how much heavier, and most of it dense muscle, so even with all his efforts he felt like he only managed to slightly reduce the number of painful stumbles.

Zidane wrapped an arm around Amarant's waist to sturdy him, then glanced back to look at Amarant's wounded leg. His pants, ragged and torn, were covering the actual gash, and the area around it was matted down with blood, a thick trail of it winding down the pant leg to the floor. It was safe to say he was probably still losing blood.

Eventually, they reached the top of the interior stairs, only to face the descent down the much longer outer stairs. Amarant groaned quietly as they shambled down the steps, his foot now dragging against the surface of each step.

"C'mon, we're almost there—" Zidane started as encouragement, only to be cut off by an angry growl from Amarant.

"I didn't _ask_ for your help—" he started, angry, before Zidane cut him right back off.

"Well, you're gettin' it anyway. Like I said, you're part of the team." He really wanted to add "and I can drop you and watch as you roll down the steps if you really don't want help", but that seemed like lowering himself to Amarant's level. So he projected determined cheerfulness into his words, although Amarant didn't deign to respond aside from a stony glare. He did, however, notice that he leaned a bit heavier on him as they made their way down the final few steps.

Their companions looked on as they limped towards the Hilda Garde.

"Amarant hurt his leg," Zidane called out to the group, "I'm gonna help him with it, to show him the meaning of teamwork!" With the undertone, of course, that it took a grievous injury to get Amarant to realize that sometimes people's couldn't stand alone. Except, Amarant just huffed and growled, and he'd bet anything he had that he was rolling his eyes, like _Zidane_ was the one being unreasonable here.

They had landed the Hilda Garde III as close as possible to the castle, so it was only a brief walk across mercifully flat, solid ground before they made it inside. Zidane steered them to the berths, near the fore of the ship. None of them were very large, but the one he picked, elbowing the door open roughly to avoid dropping Amarant, was at least _comparatively_ spacious.

Zidane shouldered the door closed as they entered and dumped Amarant down on the pull-out seat with a pained hiss, then busied himself with folding up the table, securing it to the wall, and pulling the seat Amarant was lolling on out partially, so half of it still skewed up. Then he gathered the pillows off the double-bunks lining the walls and tossed them at the bunk, most landing across Amarant's lap.

Amarant stared up at Zidane with an annoyed expression, then rolled his eyes and turned to look at the wall, scattering the pillows across the bunk and floor as he did so. "We've got two white mages." he said, "There's no reason for you to do this."

"But _teamwork_ ," Zidane started, smiling and projecting enthusiasm, "is—" Amarant leaned over towards him and clamped a hand over his mouth, glowering.

"Teamwork..." Amarant said, with a sneer. He rolled his eyes and huffed, looking incomparably put-upon. "Whatever." But he dropped his hand, so Zidane counted that as a win.

Zidane peered at the visible end of the cut— it went all the way up his right leg, ending at the outside of his hip, but wound around the back of his leg, so he couldn't see how far down it went. "Roll over," he said absentmindedly, poking at his side.

Amarant shifted above him, probably glaring or rolling his eyes or pulling some other absurd and annoying facial expression, but he rolled over onto his side without verbal comment, sprawling out on the tilted end of the bunk.

Zidane looked closer at the cut, now visible (along with a new messy blood smear on the bunk cover). The fabric of his pants had stuck to the wound, but thankfully not very hard yet, so with only a few pained sounds from Amarant he managed to pull it back carefully to expose the actual wound.

Thankfully, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. The blade had bitten into the muscle of his calf, not into his tendons. It wasn't a particularly clean wound in any sense— the axe blade must not have been very sharp, and his skin was sliced raggedly. Plus, the sanitary conditions of the centuries-old trap left a lot to be desired. Dried crusted blood was smeared all across the wound, dotted with little fibers from his pants, and the filthy liquid matted down the hairs on his leg.

"Lie down," Zidane said, waving generally at the bunk Amarant was already half-kneeling on. "On your stomach!" he clarified, following that up rapidly with "Wait, take off your pants first!" Well, he couldn't admit to _not_ having ulterior motives, but he was honestly kind of worried about the gash all across his leg. Thankfully, Amarant seemed pretty nonplussed by the request, save for his regular glower whenever he opened his mouth.

He pulled his shirt out from his belt, revealing his pale, hairy belly for a second, then unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He awkwardly tried to remove his pants without moving his injured leg, but here Zidane took a little pity on him and knelt down and carefully pulled his ripped and bloody pant leg away from his body as he tugged his pants. Underneath he was wearing a stained off-white wrap of fabric around his waist, across his ass and between his thighs to cover his soft dick. Amarant hadn't bothered to remove his boots, so his pants bunched up against his ankles. His legs were the same pale blue as the rest of his body, covered thickly with coarse reddish hair.

Amarant stretched out, a little more comfortable now that every movement wasn't pulling at his wound. He twisted around and lay prone, pillowing his head in his arms.

"Looks like that's a pretty nasty cut!" Zidane said, attention split between the gash on his leg and the abrupt appearance of his muscular, hairy ass. He was glad Amarant wasn't bothering to look at him; he could feel the first hint of a blush rise up his neck.

He looked aside, to the chest that had a few first aid supplies in the corner of the room. He probably wouldn't need much, just something to clean out the wound and then something else to heal it.

Bottles in hand, he stepped back over to Amarant and inspected the gash more closely. Yeah, definitely he was right to think he'd need something to clean it out; he could see little black nodules of... rust, or solid oil, or something else gross in the wound. Still... "So, hey, does this hurt?" he asked, pulling his skin laterally near the cut.

Amarant practically flipped over, twisting his back to give a reasonably impressive view of the blocky muscles in his back and shoulders, and reached backwards with a hand to grab his wrist tightly and pull it up. He glared down at him through his disheveled dreadlocks. " _Yes,_ " he said, enunciating extremely clearly.

Zidane tried to spread his hands in a placating manner, but he was hindered by Amarant still clamping one _hard_ , so he settled for raising one up, and after a brief moment trying to struggle out of his grip. "Sorry, sorry, won't happen again!" he said, grinning up at Amarant and attempting to project innocence.

Amarant snorted. "Better not," he said, and released his hand, which was totally going to bruise later. He rolled over again, like it had never happened. Zidane rolled his eyes.

At any rate, the sooner he started actually cleaning his wound the sooner he had to stop dealing with Amarant's neuroses (and, admittedly, the sooner he had to stop checking out his ass— when he'd rolled over he could see the twist of fabric going right between his asscheeks, just enough to separate them into two heavy, muscular shapes— he had to admit he was kind of an ass man), so he wet down the cloth and started cleaning some of the blood and gunk away, ignoring Amarant's pained, faux-annoyed growl.

He placed a hand on his upper thigh, just below his ass, and used that for stabilization as he knelt over the tangle of Amarant's pants, so he could more easily wipe away at the curving edges of the cut. He repeated his swiping motion several times, until the cloth rather unattractively pink and spotted with little red and black clusters.

He pulled away from Amarant so he could pick up one of the bottles he'd retrieved, then dribbled in a slow stream across the cut, spreading it across the skin and letting it pool in the cut itself. He soaked the cloth in the substance and wiped down the cut again, then poured more of the liquid into the cut in an attempt to flush out any further gross things. After a few repetitions of this, the wound was pretty thoroughly cleaned and Amarant had given up disguising his pained noises.

He pulled back again, recorking the bottle as he did so, and picked up the other bottle. This one was thicker, an ointment that smelled oppressively bitter, like fresh ground herbs. He tilted it up and watched as the thick liquid poured like molasses, a small dollop of it eventually gathering at the neck. He scooped it up and smeared it around on his fingertips, then carefully pressed his fingers against Amarant's skin, near the end of the wound.

He slid his fingers around in little circles, working the stuff into his body slowly, a tiny fraction of an inch at a time. His muscle and flesh knit back together again, the red gash seaming up until it was a white line. He kept moving upwards, from the inside of his thigh above his knee, up across the twisting length thin of the cut until it ended near the outside of his hip.

Amarant seemed content to settle down and not whine as he did this part. Probably the slight narcotic effect of the potion had something to do with it. Zidane, though, was just more and more aware that this was _Amarant_ , his bare hairy thigh he was stroking over and over, working right up near his ass. His ass was _right in front of him_ , and he wanted to smack it, see how it felt under his fingers. The thought of what Amarant'd do, though... it was hilarious and scary, actually, how he figured it would play out if he just up and smacked his ass, and he had to bite his lip to stifle a laugh.

He finally reached the end of the cut— or at least, the end of what he could reach from this side. His fingers were just a scant touch away from his ass, the wiry hairs brushing against his fingers. He skimmed his finger back down along the line of the scar, stroking back and forth until the white line had faded into the slightest whitening of his blue skin. Still, he froze up at the end, fingers pressing against the meaty flesh of his upper thigh.

He eventually tapped a finger against his leg, barely managing to croak out "Hey, roll over."

Amarant rolled over, unconcerned with Zidane's mental struggles. He swept his dreads back behind his head with one of his absurdly huge hands, then folded his hands back behind his head and closed his eyes again. Zidane swallowed.

His loose shirt had rucked up as he lay there, and his muscled stomach was bare. Visible under his rumpled coattails was a slight gut, with heavy muscles shifting slowly underneath. His skin was covered in short red hair, sticking out in all directions but generally converging in a thick trail down towards his crotch. It was a serious temptation to just shove his hands up there, push his shirt up to show his chest.

His underwear cut a sharp line across his meaty hips and that was maybe even more tempting. Coarse red hair stuck out in all directions from the strip of cloth covering his dick, its thick tube shape clear through the thin fabric. He was certain its bulge was bigger now, thicker than when he'd gotten a brief flash of it when he'd taken his pants off in the first place, more pronounced and jutting.

He swallowed again and looked down, across his huge muscled thighs to what was left of the wound; a tiny scratch ran across his leg, like he'd scraped it on a bramble. Still, he smeared his index finger along the cut, back and forth until it'd turned into a pale scar. He lifted his finger up at the end of the scrape, but almost unconsciously continued the motion, so that he was holding his hand right over Amarant's bulging crotch. He froze in place, feeling his body heat against the palm of his hand.

Amarant laughed, more like blowing a snort of air through his nose than anything that could properly be called a laugh, and grinned down at him. Zidane jerked his hand backwards, eyes coming up to lock with Amarant's, open a crack. He pulled a hand out from behind his head, so obviously affecting sleepiness and confidence as he cupped his dick, even curling the tips of his fingers under the stretched fabric.

"You want it?" he said, voice low and rusty. It sent a shiver through Zidane, even though his cocky attitude was completely intolerable, now more than ever. "Come and get it." He ground his hand across his hardening dick, then hooked the cloth aside with a thumb. His bushy, coarse red hair ringed all around his cock, his thighs fuzzy with the stuff. Amarant was two heads taller than him and his dick was _more_ then proportionally larger, huge and thick already half-hard. Hell, he was bigger than _Zeniro_ was, half-hard. He tugged on it, his hips coming up minutely to thrust against his rough palm.

Zidane rolled his eyes even as he felt his cock stiffen more at him, fuck, putting on a big show of jerking off. He didn't have many standards, but he absolutely refused to let Amarant get even more full of himself by just bending over. "Yeah, 'cause you'd be doing me such a favor to let me jerk you off." Amarant actually had some sort of facial expression at that, something aside scorn and superiority. Hopefully, something like surprise. "You're so selfless; getting off's such a chore but you'd do it just to satisfy me." Amarant almost looked _annoyed_ now, his brow furrowed and his mouth curved down in a tiny frown, and he had to bite his lip to keep himself from grinning.

"How about you do me a favor and jerk me off?" Zidane ventured, cupping and pulling at the prominent bulge in his pants. "I'm all about taking care of friends, y'know?" And of everything he'd said, _that_ was what soured Amarant's expression the most. He absolutely could not resist grinning in his smug, sneering face. He freed his belt with a quick tug, unbuttoned his pants, and spread the fly. He grabbed his cock and started stroking with long, smooth strokes as Amarant stared. His cock fit in his hand nicely, warm and smooth, with thick loose skin covering the hard shaft. And, in comparison to Amarant's deathly paleness, he was tanned golden all over. With his free hand, he pushed up his shirt, moaning showily a little, to reveal the thick, downy fur on his toned stomach and above his crotch.

Amarant seemed to get a little of his resolve back, though, and he started talking again: "If you're so ready you just whip it out, how about you climb on—" and here he squeezed the base of his cock so the whole thing bulged out, a violent red "—and I'll show you a good time." He stroked his cock slowly, smirking like he expected him to be enchanted by the slick smear of wetness at the tip, or the chunky movements of his foreskin as he rolled it up across the head and back down. Which, admittedly, was pretty hot— but it was nothing he hadn't seen from Marcus or Blank before.

Zidane crept forward a little, until he was between Amarant's spread legs, their cocks just far enough apart that their hands wouldn't collide as they both stroked themselves. "I'm gonna be honest," Zidane started as he leaned down across Amarant's chest, "my idea of a good time isn't letting some thug dump his load in me." Amarant bared his teeth at him, but he continued on: "See, I like sex to be _fun_ , with none of your bullshit tough guy acting." Zidane pulled back a little, sitting back on Amarant's spread legs. "Plus I probably just saved your life, if we're gonna get into favors."

Amarant bared his teeth again, like he thought it was intimidating instead of kind of silly at this point. But thankfully, after what was probably the tensest thirty seconds jerking off with another guy in his life, Amarant glanced up at Zidane with an expression gratifyingly close to nervousness on his face, and knocked aside his hand to take hold of his cock. Zidane couldn't hold in a low moan as his large, calloused hand started stroking him, which drew a nasty look from Amarant. Obligingly, Zidane took his cock in hand, the admittedly pretty huge length sticking up above his hand, the whole thing dark and red and hot.

He leaned closer, taking in the rank dried-sweat smell of Amarant's body. It wasn't a particularly nice smell, but it hit some primal space back behind his sinuses and sent a bolt of arousal down to his cock, Amarant's hand already slick with his precome. He tipped forward a little, their cocks glancing off each other in a movement that made them both groan, his free hand coming down on Amarant's hairy belly, thick slabs of muscle covered in a little concealing fat. He moved his hand up, pushing his shirt up like he'd wanted, to reveal his chest, his large pecs drooping down, fat nipples jutting out. Amarant hissed and groaned as he jerkily tugged on one, trying to keep his rhythm on his dick.

Amarant, for his part, kept fluttering his hand up, like he wanted to touch him but didn't want him to, like, _know_. Zidane finally put a stop to that, grinding their hips together, sliding his slick cock against Amarant's huge length. They both kind of shuffled and slid against each other, letting go of their cocks as they humped uncoordinately against each other. Zidane leaned down, balancing his hands on Amarant's tense stomach, and Amarant reached down and took his hips in hand, pulling him close and really grinding hard, Zidane yelping as the very bases of their dicks touched, pressing back against their pubic bones.

Amarant also took the opportunity to shove his hands down the back of Zidane's pants now that he was practically lying on top of him, kneading his downy ass, seemingly surprised by the golden fur he had covering his hips and ass. Zidane groaned, trying to grind against Amarant and push his ass back into his grasp at the same time, only really managing to wiggle around and drop his loose pants further down his thighs, the fabric starting to bunch and tangle.

They bucked against each other for a while, Zidane gasping and panting; Amarant groaning low as their cocks slid against each other, both slick and hard. Amarant sat up partly, pulling Zidane down to kiss him violently, pushing his tongue into his mouth and lapping and sucking at his lips while Zidane gasped, blowing breaths of air against his face.

Amarant growled, Zidane only noticing belatedly that their shirttails had fallen down, covering their bare cocks. He slid his hands up from his waist, yanking Zidane's shirt violently up, pulling the whole thing up and over his head, probably popping most of the buttons on the way.

He seemed surprised all over again by the golden fur across his chest, reaching up almost to his shoulders and spreading under his arms and across his back. "You're hairy," he said, and Zidane wasn't sure if he meant it like, "wow what a surprise" or "what is wrong with you" or what.

So he said "I'm _furry_ ," and yanked Amarant's shirt open, bursting every single button off with a gratifying series of pops, all of them bouncing around the room. " _You're_ hairy," he accused, jabbing a finger against his meaty pectoral, covered in coarse reddish hair.

Amarant grinned and shucked his shirt, tossing it off somewhere and pulled him down, kissing Zidane until his lips bruised, his dick grinding against his stomach. Amarant's dick popped out from between their stomachs as Zidane slid up, hot like a burning brand, and bobbed between Zidane's legs until he closed his thighs, Amarant humping back and forth, sliding his dick between the tight slick space under his balls, fucking his furry thighs.

His pants were tangled around his _knees_ at this point but neither of them cared, too busy rutting against each other like base animals, panting and gasping. Amarant's cock felt huge and hard between his thighs, the swollen head dripping precome across the fur on his ass and thighs, all of it already spiky and rough, dark with sweat.

Zidane came with a low keening noise, almost sounding like he was crying into Amarant's mouth as he shot off, come splattering in ropes between them, smearing back and forth as they rutted, matting down his fur and Amarant's rough hair even as more cascaded out of his dick, until their stomachs were shiny with his load and his chest was dark and matted down.

He sagged down against Amarant, who was looking at him wide-eyed. He tentatively grasped Zidane's cock and pumped it back and forth, working out the final shuddering spasms of come across his stomach. Zidane went completely limp on top of him, Amarant's dick jutting out past his closed thighs, spreading precome against the base of his tail.

"Get me off," Amarant huffed out, a little out of breath and still staring at Zidane with a weird expression on his face, like he couldn't believe this had just happened.

Zidane rolled his eyes and made an obscene gesture. "What did I just say," he said flatly, but he was feeling a little charitable in his afterglow so he obligingly sat up a little and let Amarant's cock slide out from between his slick thighs. It slapped up against his stomach with a heavy, meaty sound, and yeah, he was going to enjoy this.

They were still close enough together that Zidane's mostly-hard dick was pressing against Amarant's cock, sending little jolts of pleasure through his body whenever they touched. The smeared lines of come across their stomachs were dripping and smearing across Amarant's huge cock as they ground against each other. Little droplets of precome kept dripping from the tip of Amarant's flushed dick.

Zidane slid a hand down across their chests, both their hair matted down and damp with sweat and come. He could feel Amarant's heavy muscled stomach tremble under his touch, his muscles spasming and rippling as he slid his hand down across his hairy belly. He finally grasped around his cock and Amarant groaned loudly, head lolling back and lips spread in a grimace.

He still had the ragged twist of fabric across his waist, cutting into the fat on his hips and held tightly up against the skin below his balls. He couldn't resist sliding his hands across the fabric, back around to his huge, hairy ass. Amarant huffed and panted as he squeezed his ass, _way_ more than two handfuls of heavy muscle, and ground his dick up against Zidane's stomach as he groped his ass, thrusting against him, the head dripping precome into the matted fur on his chest.

Zidane pushed a finger against Amarant's asshole and was surprised when he spasmed again, muscles rippling, and opened his ass up for him, finger sinking easily inside.

"Later," Amarant growled out, though, "Suck me off," he said, which Zidane felt like he ought to have expected. It was kinda surprising, though. He figured Amarant was the kind of guy who'd only have sex with a guy as long as he got to be the big masculine top or whatever.

So he pulled back, reaching back around to clasp his hands around Amarant's dick, watching his thick, loose foreskin roll back and forth with each stroke, the whole thing shining with fluids.

Amarant growled or groaned or something, and raised up an arm to pinch one of his fat nipples, really working the hard nub back and forth; pulling it down and rolling it between his fingers as he stared down at Zidane. "Suck me off," he said again, like the only reason he wasn't already doing it was that he hadn't _heard_ him before.

Zidane did an extremely rapid cost/benefit analysis in his head, admittedly already sinking down Amarant's body. He'd probably even more insufferable if he thought he'd charmed Zidane with, like, his huge hot dick or whatever, but he _did_ really want to suck him off. He'd just have to keep working against Amarant's dumb self-centered attitude, he thought as he sunk level with his dick, the head smearing wetness across his cheek.

"Open up," Amarant said, and moved his other hand down, like he was gonna pry open his mouth or something. Zidane shoved it away and he thankfully didn't try that again.

He bowed his head down just a tiny fraction, but enough to press his lips against the slick head of his dick. He tasted like he smelled, heavy and sweaty, kind of rank, almost but not quite objectionable.

Amarant bit his lip to muffle the rumbling groan that shook his body and whipped his hand back to press down on his head, his hips pistoning forward to shove half of his cock into Zidane's mouth. Zidane pulled back, coughing, and glared up at him, because choking people who were actually _willing_ to suck you off was so rude. Amarant grinned back in an expression that was halfway between a grimace and showing his teeth, and Zidane was really starting to think that "angry grimace" was the only expression he could make while having sex.

So, maybe not go right back to sucking him off, Zidane thought, and licked across the length of his cock, from his coarsely-haired balls up to the tip, wrapping his tongue around the head at his peak as it shot a thick strand of precome into his mouth. Zidane grimaced at the bitter, salty taste, but still took the head of his cock into his mouth again. Amarant tried to push him down his cock again, a little less forceful and sudden this time, and Zidane rolled his eyes.

Amarant arched up and growled a little deep in his throat, like getting Zidane to deepthroat his cock was just a matter of finding the right position to put him in. Zidane slid his hands up between Amarant's hairy thighs and resolutely shoved him back, pushing him back flat against the bed. He bobbed back and forth on the tip of his cock, slurping a little on the backstroke, and he could feel Amarant try to thrust forward every single time he started to bob back. Seriously, he'd _never_ fucked anyone as rude as this before.

Amarant sat up a little, and it was nice to see the muscles of his stomach go outlined and taut under his gut. He scrabbled his hands across his back, spiking all his fur up the wrong way. Zidane pulled off his cock with a wet pop, a messy spurt of precome coating his lips immediately afterwards.

He grimaced and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, and Amarant took the relative freedom to lurch forward, bending almost double. His dreads swung out across his shoulders; he could feel their heavy weight just barely skimming across his back as he reached down across his lower back, still dragging all his fur backwards. He slid his fingers through the thicker fur across his ass, and finally slid his fingers along Zidane's ass, shoving roughly into his asscrack. Zidane wondered idly to himself, with Amarant's cock still bobbing right in front of his face as he bent over double trying to reach his ass, if he'd stop being such a self-centered asshole if he bit his dick right now. Probably not.

Anyway, Amarant shoved a thick finger against his asshole, apparently surprised when Zidane didn't just open up and take him in. Conversely, Zidane ran his right hand across Amarant's dick, slick with precome and spit, and reached down between his legs, under his heavy balls, to press two fingers up against his asshole. And, because the universe (or at least Amarant) hated him, he could feel Amarant relax a little and open up, practically pulling his fingers inside him.

Amarant sat up a little, his body trembling a tiny bit, and groaned, or moaned, or something; it was kind of hard to hear with his head still stuck between his thighs. But at least he wasn't still trying to shove his fingers in to his ass dry, although he apparently had no problem with Zidane fingerfucking him with only spit and precome as lube.

He slid his fingers back and forth, working his asshole open slowly, only pushing his fingers maybe halfway in. He added a third when he realized that with their relative size difference, three of his fingers up Amarant's ass were just about as large, comparatively, as one of Amarant's up his.

Amarant _definitely_ moaned then, alarmingly loud, and he would have slapped a hand over his mouth if he was in any position to do so. Instead, he slid his pinky in alongside the rest of his fingers and sunk them all halfway into his ass. That just made Amarant _louder_ , groaning something incoherent that was probably supposed to be language, but between his lazy enunciation and his huge thighs clamped across his head and neck he couldn't make any of it out. His cock, too, seized up and spurted out a shot of precome. It shot out across his face, over his left eyebrow, and dripped down so that he had to squint with one eye closed.

Not that there was really that much to see, but he had to admit the view of Amarant's stomach trembling, muscles spasming and pulling taut for a fraction of a second before relaxing again, was really hot. If he had any hands free he'd be jerking off, but instead he just had to suffice with grinding his dick against the mattress, leaving behind a slick trail of precome.

He was really surprised Amarant was apparently incredibly turned on by having a significant portion of his hand up his ass. He wasn't making any move to try and fuck his mouth, or to shove his fingers up _his_ ass. Instead, he was just lying back with his cock rock hard and moaning a lot.

But apparently he thought too quickly, because after another half-minute of that Amarant tugged him up, pretty much by grabbing at his underarms and yanking upwards. He had to swiftly maneuver his arm to avoid wrenching his right hand, the one that was in _his ass_ ( _really_ surprising, he thought again) out painfully, although that meant leaving his arm trapping in between their bodies, his wrist at an awkward angle. And then it happened anyway, when Amarant pulled him up so he could kiss him, and his fingers all pulled out with a sudden movement. Amarant just _moaned_ against his lips, breath hitching a little in a way that went right to his cock.

Amarant pressed his fingers against his furred ass again, though, because it really was too much to expect for him to not try that again. This time they were slick, practically dripping with some unknown substance, and he pushed in easily. Zidane yelped, panting against Amarant as he pushed inside, and cast around looking for where he'd found lube.

It was the potion, of course, because Amarant had no respect for their first-aid supplies. Man, they were gonna have to get more, he observed, as Amarant pulled his finger out, scooped out a massive dollop from the bottle, and pushed back inside, adding a second finger alongside.

It'd been a while since he'd been fucked, but he could feel the weird tingle of the potion over the not unpleasant stretch of his flesh, from the tip of his tail all the way up to the top of his head. Amarant had no problem pushing his huge fingers inside, down to the knuckle.

And why did the guy with the biggest hands he'd ever seen have to be into fisting, apparently, Zidane wondered. He wiggled his fingers around inside his ass and Zidane sucked in a breath, gasping a little as he hit his fingers against the walls of his ass, sending little waves of weird pleasure all across his body.

Their cocks mashed together and slid against each other as Zidane shuddered, while Amarant just lay there smirking and in control, the jackass. His free hand was anchored on Zidane's hips, his huge, rough thumb absentmindedly stroking back and forth across Zidane's stomach, just above his still-hard cock.

His fingers felt surprisingly good inside him, and he let out a little breathy grunt as Amarant crooked his hand and pushed his thumb in alongside, stretching and working at his ass. And then he made a sound halfway between a yelp and a moan when Amarant pulled his fingers outward, stretching his ass open with an ease that would be impossible without the magical gunk coating his fingers.

He wound his tail around Amarant's forearm to keep it from thrashing around even more as Amarant tried pushing his fingers deeper again while twisting his hand around.

Amarant was just staring at him as he whimpered and groaned. Their legs were wrapped together; Zidane's feet maybe reaching halfway down Amarant's calves, and he was grinding their hips together, Amarant's cock huge and red, Zidane's half-hard, with the foreskin hooded over the head and a long strand of precome drooling from the tip as he fucked himself on Amarant's fingers.

But he was not expecting Amarant to pick him up, or pick him up as much as was possible while keeping his fingers up his ass. He lifted up and slid down a little himself, the friction of their skin (and fur) sliding together sending rough sparks through Zidane's entire body. He groaned a little as his dick slid up across his chest, leaving a slick trail behind, and then huffed out, disappointed, when it popped out over Amarant's shoulder, its thick length pushing abruptly against air... and then he really did yelp when Amarant stooped down and licked across his shaft, quickly tonguing over his balls to lap at the skin behind them, near his ass.

Reflexively, and to give Amarant a little bit of a hard time, he grabbed at his heavy dreads and pulled up, to steer him back to his cock. Amarant followed unresisting as his cock slapped across his face, sliding from his ear to his nose until his pulled back a tiny fraction, curled his tongue around it, and swallowed it down to the base in one swift gulp. Zidane's grip spasmed as Amarant swallowed repeatedly, milking his cock.

Amarant kept sucking him him off and started working his fingers in deeper, pulling his fingers out and shoving them back in with his ring finger alongside. Zidane yelped and grunted again, arching back and almost toppling over as Amarant's fingers slammed down to the knuckle, almost his entire hand inside him now.

Amarant said something, or at least his throat vibrated all along his dick like he was trying to say something, but all Zidane felt like he could respond with was a stuttered groan as Amarant pulled back with a wet slurp, Zidane's hard cock bobbing wetly in front of his mouth.

"Suck my cock," he growled out, which was _so unfair_. Zidane supposed that actually getting a great blowjob from Amarant, even if it was while he tried to fist him, was expecting too much. But at this point he figured he might as well, anyway.

Amarant sat up somewhat, which took most of his choice in the matter away anyway, because he practically tumbled down his chest, legs still spread wide and Amarant's fingers still deep in his ass, bumping and jostling as he slid down and eking out another messy line of precome from his cock.

It looked like Amarant was about a second away from coming, anyway. His cock was as flushed and slick as ever, positively pulsing against his stomach, the head darkened to a dark purple. He was rank and salty, precome dripping down the shaft as Zidane took it in, Amarant leaning over him again so he could stare at his fingers, his pinky wedged along the crack of his spread ass with the rest of his gargantuan hand inside his tight ass.

"Yeah," he said, his voice surprisingly husky, "'M gonna come in your mouth," he said, and then paused to suck in a rasping breath, "Then you're gonna come with my fist up yer ass," he barely managed to growl out, practically panting.

Maybe just _saying_ that was what got Amarant off, more than his tongue pressing up against the head of his dick, but pretty much _as_ he said it he could feel his dick jerk, spasming strong in his mouth as he started to come. He came in bursts, and the first splattered against the back of his mouth, followed by another as he pulled off his dick, spurting messily across his tongue. Amarant pulled his head up, his free hand closing massively around Zidane's mussed blond hair as he came across his face, thick ropes splattering across his forehead and cheeks.

Amarant pulled him up, again, to kiss him. He was groaning even before their lips pushed together, his tongue licking across the lines of come on his face before they _actually_ kissed, his come thick in their mouths as he kept coming, shooting across their chests. Zidane just _held on_ , hands tight on Amarant's sides as he came, pumping, spewing messy lines of come with enough force to tangle in his beard, across his jaw. Amarant was groaning to much to really coordinate a kiss, and he kept flexing his fingers back and forth, deep in his ass, so Zidane settled for mostly panting in his face and occasionally pressing their lips together, messy lines of his come smearing across their lips.

Amarant finally started to ebb, no longer rocking his body so hard, and Zidane reached down to stroke his cock, coaxing out the final few spurts from his cock, the thick fluid drooling down his hands and matting his pubic hair against his body.

Amarant gave him a little grin (which, since it was a facial expression clearly not an attempt to intimidate, was a surprise to Zidane) and pulled his hand back, out of his ass. He pressed his fingers together and pushed forward again, shoving all four of his thick fingers into his ass. Zidane groaned, the sensation feeling... _weird_ , mostly, even when Amarant shoved down to the knuckle and then even further, burying the crest of his hand inside. He pulled back, sliding back out enough for him to wedge his thumb alongside the rest of his hand, and then pushed forward with enough force to sink his entire hand inside Zidane, down to the wrist in one movement.

Zidane couldn't resist groaning at the surreal pleasure as Amarant stretched his asshole wide, but he still arched up, legs taut and cock throbbing against Amarant's belly, like he was going to stand up off his hand.

Amarant _apparently_ took that as him struggling to spread his legs wider, though, and he used his free hand to pull his legs apart, baring his obscenely stretched out ass as his worked his fist back and forth. It felt incredibly weird, to be stretched out like that. It probably would have been impossible— or at least painful— without the healing gel, but with it... the sensation of his flesh stretching was so surreal, his ass opening up impossibly wide for Amarant's ludicrously oversized hands. His tail was curling back and forth practically of its own volition, like an exceptionally pleased cat.

Amarant, at least, was really into it. He was focused on his ass, staring down with his brow furrowed, his dreads swinging back and forth against his shoulders as he twisted his hand around, working it back and forth. He pulled his hand halfway out, so that he was breaking his ass wide open, the wide crest of his hand opening his ass up, and then pushed back in to the wrist. He was practically punching his fist back and forth, pulling it out to maximally stretch his ass, and it wasn't long at until Zidane came with a moan, his cock spurting out wet lines all across his chest, arching up to shoot against his neck, a few wet lines tangling across Amarant's bearded chin.

Amarant reached down to stroke his cock, coaxing out his load, and brought their cocks together, his cock softening but still huge as he stroked, quickly smearing his tacky fluids all across Zidane's dick.

He leaned closer, locking lips with Zidane as he milked out the final dregs of his orgasm, wet drops scattering across their stomachs. But then he pulled his hand back and _punched_ it forward, sending it deep into Zidane's ass, the huge muscles of his forearm stretching out his red, raw asshole. Zidane yelled against his mouth, breaking apart to suck in gasping breaths, and his cock shot off _again_ , lancing bolts of come against their necks, lines meshing into Amarant's beard before Zidane just went limp, panting.

Amarant tried it again, pulling back and sending his fist crashing down, deep inside him, and his whole body rocked like he'd been shocked, his cock once again spurting out a long line of come. But then he tugged his arm out of Zidane's ass with a wet sucking sound, pulling one final spasm of come from Zidane's dick.

Amarant collapsed backwards, his chest heaving as he panted, and Zidane remained sitting on his legs for a half-second, before tottering over like a falling tree. He managed to roll aside so that he didn't actually elbow him in the face as he fell, at least, and for a long moment afterwards he lay on top of one of Amarant's arms, catching his breath and feeling the aftershock of his orgasm slowly fade.

Zidane finally looked over at him, his body all sweaty and covered in their come, only to find Amarant already staring at him, a grin on his lips. "Told you it'd be good" he said, and his voice was only a little rough.

"Oh, fuck off," Zidane replied casually, still a little out of breath, and made an obscure gesture. It didn't really look like that surprised or offended Amarant, though. He probably _was_ going to be completely insufferable after this.

"Sure," Amarant said, and slowly levered himself up and abruptly rolled over across him, his skin slick and sweaty as he licked across his neck and jaw, lapping up the threads of come across his skin. He could feel his cock pressing against his legs, huge and soft as Amarant sloppily kissed him, sliding his tongue into his open mouth, his lips tasting like come. He pulled back a half-second later and stared down at him.

"Next time," he said, and his voice was low and rough, "I'm gonna fuck you."

Zidane rolled his eyes. "That cocky act isn't doing you any favors," he said in way of response, and then slid out from under Amarant.

"So," he said, drawing out the sound when Amarant remained lying on one side, his face half-concealed with his mop of dreadlocks. "I'm gonna, uh, tell them your legs all healed up now." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the door.

"You might want to wash up, first," Amarant said, still sprawled back on the bed, idly tugging on his softening cock, smearing their come across his shaft.

Zidane looked down at his come-covered chest and wrinkled his nose. "Yeah."


End file.
